


Malnourished

by Severina



Series: Alphabet Soup [13]
Category: Black Sails
Genre: Community: 1_million_words, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-15
Updated: 2015-09-15
Packaged: 2018-04-20 20:43:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,227
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4801619
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Severina/pseuds/Severina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You'll earn your keep serving drinks behind the bar, not by spreading your legs," Vane says.  If he cannot gain her blushes through gentle touches then he will steal them through crudeness.  Either way, he enjoys seeing the flush chase across her face and brighten the tips of her ears.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Malnourished

**Author's Note:**

> Sequel to "Laceration". Post Season Two. Written for prompt "M" at LJ's 1_million_words A to Z Challenge.
> 
> * * *

He brings her to the brothel, leaning heavily on his walking stick, and watches as her eyes goes wide and flustered when she realizes in what kind of establishment he intends to install her.

"I… I thank you for your kindness the past few weeks, Captain," she begins haltingly, "but I cannot—"

"You'll earn your keep serving drinks behind the bar, not by spreading your legs," Vane says. If he cannot gain her blushes through gentle touches then he will steal them through crudeness. Either way, he enjoys seeing the flush chase across her face and brighten the tips of her ears.

Abigail's gaze flits about the bar, taking in the drunken men, the bare breasts of the women as they press themselves closer into pawing hands, urging yet another glass of ale before they will lead the men to a room. Her already pale face turns even more ashen, highlighting the bright spots of colour on her cheekbones, before she straightens her shoulders. Her throat works for a moment though no words emerge before her eyes flick to his and then away. "Thank you," she finally manages.

"Idelle will show you to your room," he says dismissively. He turns toward the long bar and gestures for a beaker, his back to her. But he can still feel her eyes upon him until Idelle steps forward to take her arm, and hear the click of her low heels as she makes her way unsteadily across the room to the stairs.

* * *

He watches her as he recovers from the wound that nearly took his life, most often taking a table in the shadows. Even his men do not usually spot him there, and he finds that he can observe without having to explain himself. Not that there is anything to explain, beyond ensuring that his money is not being thrown away on a sluggard or a thief.

He discovers that she is quick on her feet once she learns what is expected of her, though her eyes most often remain downcast and she does not know what to make of the ribald suggestions of the men. But she is tireless, and Vane narrows his eyes when he passes through the bar late one evening to find her still in the establishment, though now slumped over a table with her chin propped on one arm. Hair that was once lush hangs lack against pale cheeks and she doesn't rouse at the sound of his footsteps, nor does the lone sailor snoring amidst the detritus of spilled beer. Though normally wary of her surroundings, Abigail's eyes, in fact, do not drift from where they stare dully at a spot somewhere on the far wall. It is that which decides him.

A quick diversion to the kitchen and then he drops the plate in front of her on the table, lips twisting when she jerks back to full alertness. Her gaze flicks to his before turning to the fruits and steaming fowl on the plate, a frown line appearing between her eyes.

"You're getting too thin," he says by way of explanation. No need to mention the dark circles beneath her eyes that he fears are not simply from the long hours, or the permanently worried expression; the hunched shoulders whenever someone laughs too raucously or is overgenerous with his hands. He drops into the chair opposite her and gestures toward the plate. "Eat."

She stirs herself then, a minute motion with one finger toward the meat. "When first we met, you served me bread seething with maggots," she observes.

"When first we met, you were worth gold beyond measure," he counters. 

She squares her shoulders, lifts an unblinking gaze to him. "And now?"

Now, indeed. What is a pallid and cautious creature like Abigail Ashe worth to Charles Vane? A challenge, perhaps. A chase. Though one in which he remains perpetually stuck in the starting gate and she far ahead, unaware that there is even a pursuit to be had. He ought to either release her to the wolves or take her himself, and knows that he will do neither. 

"Things change," he finally answers, more gruffly than he intended. When she flinches he tempers his voice, taps the plate with one finger. "You'll do me good if you waste away."

"I fear that I do you no good regardless," she says. But she pulls the plate closer and chews slowly, thoughtfully, the way she does all things. As though she must measure each mouthful and count each careful mastication before she swallows. When she sighs and pushes the plate away, her meal only half-eaten, it is as though the weight of the world is on her thin shoulders. "This life is not what I imagined it to be when I left Charles Town."

He cannot fathom what a sheltered woman of good family could possibly want, if not a husband of breeding and a staff of servants and half a dozen brats to carry on the family name. But he remembers the look in her eye when he informed her of Low's fate; remembers the vicious snap of her jaw around a single word. And he also cannot envision this woman, despite her gentle upbringing, being content to sit in a parlour and spend her afternoons at tea and needlepoint. "What did you imagine?" he asks.

"Adventure."

Vane snorts. "You serve in a brothel in the pirate capital of the world with its most feared Captain as your master," he says. "Is that not adventurous enough for you, Abigail?"

Her answering smile is tentative, and doesn't reach her eyes. "I hadn't thought of it that way."

He pushes away from the table, nods again toward the plate of food quickly turning cold and unpalatable. "Eat," he says. "Tomorrow I will see about finding you a position more befitting your talents."

Her eyebrows lift at that, but as he watches he sees her file it away in favour of another, more pressing matter. "You could… join me?" she says quickly, making it a question. When he pauses, she gestures with one slim arm toward his empty chair. "Eating is certainly more pleasurable when there is a companion with whom to pass the time, turning the meal from a chore into an agreeable diversion. Don't you think, Captain?" 

He thinks, again, that he ought to throw her in the sea or return her to Charles Town; remove her from his presence so he need not hear the lilting sound of her voice or see the open, guileless way she looks at him. As though he were not the man who kept her locked in an airless room, as though he were worthy of the attention of someone like her. His hand clenches at his side. His mouth opens of its own volition. 

"Charles," he says. "My name is Charles."

"So it is," she answers. "Won't you join me for a meal, Charles?" 

When he inclines his head and retakes his seat, her smile this time is genuine. It changes the entire aspect of her face, lights her from within, and he is helpless to resist it. And when she ducks her head and regards him from beneath long dark lashes, her lips ruby red and ripe for his, he finds himself wondering what else he will do to please this woman.


End file.
